


The Master's Creation

by Lillielle



Category: Alice: Madness Returns, American McGee's Alice
Genre: Coercion, F/M, Mind Control, Non-consent, Psychological Horror, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:43:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lillielle/pseuds/Lillielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disclaimer: I own nothing.</p><p>AU. Slight companion piece to "Ruined." Dr. Bumby never thought any of this would actually WORK...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Master's Creation

She looks up at me with those vivid green eyes, like emerald fire, and I am lost.

Alice Liddell. My finest creation and I can tell no one of it. How could anyone understand the thrill of accomplishment in forcing her to forget, in breaking her mind and molding her to my desires, my whims? The press of her slight body against me, the way her lips part when I bend my head and bruise them. She accepts it all so sweetly, so willingly.

She didn't always, you know. How she fought. Her eyes spitting green sparks at me as she feverishly declared that she would remember, that her memories condemned her to discovering them. How she hated her Wonderland, her Wonderland was ruined. Calling me a monster (how I laughed inside, she hadn't even half a clue as to the scope of my monstrosity).

The thought of my hands touching her body, of bending over my desk or my bed, removing her garments, filled her with revulsion in those days, I'm sure.  Virtually sexless, my gorgeous Doll. But then, she'd spent half her life locked up in an asylum, haunted by her past. How could she find a lover, I mean, really. Oh, sure, the orderlies pawed her about a time or two, I'm sure, but passion, true passion...No, that remained locked tightly inside until I found the key.

I don't mean to give the impression that it's been easy, the creation of my Doll. It's been wretchedly difficult. At times, I felt like giving up. Give up on her, sell her to the highest bidder, let them deal with her petulance, her spirited will. But every time I thought of it, I couldn't help but recall Lizzie, and I knew I couldn't.

Ah, Lizzie. My love, but she betrayed me. She played hard to get, you see. Such a defiant little chit, I can see where Alice got it. She didn't want to admit her feelings for me, so she denied them, even to herself. She got what was coming to her in the end, though, I made sure of that. I panicked, though. That was the problem. I meant to take her with me, but I panicked and knocked over the lantern and well, the rest, as they say, is history.

She was a sweet piece, though, I'll give her that. So hot and wet and tight. Her sister's better, if you can imagine. Little Alice. Bright green eyes and silky black hair and those long, slender, white limbs. The almost childish swell of her breasts, her hips. She's so small beneath me, it's almost hard to remember she actually is nineteen now.

She talks to herself in her sleep sometimes. I hear her. Mumbling about the Dollhouse. About Wonderland. Ruin, ruin, it's all ruin, I hear her whimper, tossing her head about like a spirited horse, and of course, I must roll her over and take her. Her cries are unbearably exciting. She doesn't even wake up half the time, just lies there with her face buried in the pillow, spit dampening a sheaf of her hair. Night-dress rucked up around her waist.

My greatest triumph and my greatest failure all in one. I'm lost to her, my little Alice Doll. She whispers she loves me every night, when I'm done with her, and I always tell her that I love her, too. Who knows, maybe one of these days, it will even be the truth.

She forgets, and with her amnesia, I rejoice. I tell her that treatment does not come easily, forgetting is hard. Sometimes she wakes up, recognizes her situation. Cries for Wonderland, for Lizzie. For her parents. She begs me for her stuffed rabbit, tears spilling down her face in a hot, salty stream. I always make up a story. Out for cleaning or repair. Borrowed by a friend. It never fails to quiet her, until she's left in a slightly bedraggled heap in a corner of my office, dabbing at her face with the corner of her apron. And soon enough, she's my pliant little plaything again, catching her bottom lip with her teeth as she tries to seduce me. It always works, of course. 

And the best part of it all, really, from a medical standpoint, is how little self-awareness she has of her own brokenness.


End file.
